


Sister Of Night

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [10]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M, and Paul is still in denial, and because an artist needs his fair share of suffering, angsty and miserable because Richard is the drama queen, so he will go and write that Emigrate album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: "Do me," Richard mutters, his chest rising and falling erratically from his shaky breaths.Stifling a sigh, Paul lets his eyes slip shut for a fraction of a second. He knows what it implies and he doesn't like it a single bit, he can't help not liking it on some very deep level, but is there anything he could actually do about it? No, Paul doesn't think so, unless he wants to make what is already pretty bad even worse.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Sister Of Night

_Sister of night  
When the longing returns  
Giving voice to the flame  
Calling you through flesh that burns  
Breaking down your will  
To move in for the kill  
  
Oh sister  
Come for me  
Embrace me  
Assure me  
Hey sister  
I feel it too.*© _

**2005, Sweden.**

Paul can see him sitting in the very first row, shrouded in the shadow of the barrier before him and dwarfed by the size of the empty stand towering above and behind. His elbows are propped into his knees and his hands are pressed to the lower part of his face, covering his mouth as if he was watching something in profound amazement, but Paul knows better than that. Richard neither moves nor blinks nor makes any other sign of acknowledgement as Paul approaches, and his face bears traces of something way worse than wonder.

Stifling a worried sigh – because he is aware that openly taking pity on Richard usually ruins all well-intentioned attempts to help – Paul silently slips into the seat next to him. Words aren’t a much lesser evil, either; in most cases, all they can result in is a testy request to fuck off, and Paul's way too concerned to do just that because of what he sees in Richard’s glazed over eyes.

Come to think of it, though, he doesn't really _need_ words to know what is happening with his band – and _bed_ \- – mate.

It has barely been half an hour since the gig, which might well be the last of this tour because of Till's knee injury, finished. Even the smoke under the dome of the arena hasn't dissipated yet despite the air-conditioners working at full capacity, the pyro stench hanging in the air, the acrid mist shrouding the workers dismantling the stage. This mist is a peculiar thing, Paul muses as he gives the surroundings a brief examination. Almost like some sort of a time machine, it seems to be able to preserve memories. There are sounds in it – Till's rolling voice, roars and explosions, cheers and chants of the audience, guitar riffs and percussive sequences; all those fading echoes from what has already become history overlapping the cheery commands and jokes from the stage crew. The house lights are on and it's oh so easy to close one's eyes and just revive the image of the thirty-thousand crowd going completely, beautifully insane. It’s like they are still here, their very essence is still alive, and it’s a strange, spooky feeling. 

Being here in the very midst of what was once pulsing with energy and helplessly watching the stage being disassembled, it's hard to believe their touring routine may suddenly be over for the time being. Even harder to tell how long it's going to take until the roar of amplifiers tears this eerie silence again. It can't be very long, of course, they are at what seems to be the pinnacle of their careers now, but this particular tour hasn't been as easy as it has been successful. There is also the fact that it came after a not particularly easy recording of the two latest albums they released, which in turn happened after the nightmare of the Mutter-times studio work and the subsequent equally nightmarish tour. Which altogether implies that a long break is definitely due.

Paul is looking forward to going back home, of course, he is missing it badly and he would kill for the chance to see his kids at long last, but, dammit, there is still that place deep inside of him which is hopelessly hooked on performing live and which is already longing for more, merely half an hour after this tour was done with; a certain craving that makes his fingertips itch.

And now here is Richard, one glance at whom is more than enough to know that it is not _just_ hard. No, it's plainly bad. 

He is still wearing his stage outfit, and his skin looks unnaturally pale against the dark smudges of the stage makeup, black and red like smears of soot and blood. There is a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his temples and on his back between his shoulder blades, and, complemented by the steady draught created by the ventilation system working at full blast to get rid of all the smoke, it makes him shiver. With a soft, shaky exhale – and still without paying attention to Paul – Richard buries his face in his hands. His fingers grip his hair so tightly his knuckles go white. His breath leaves his nostrils in short, pained huffs. He's being an almost textbook representation of the pains of withdrawal, Paul reflects with another pang of sympathy, even though he knows for sure that Richard’s done with drugs – he had said so himself long before the tour started, even joked about substituting the dope with all the euphoria-inducing shit his body's capable of producing during a gig. Now, however, all jokes aside, he must have run out of his only _legal_ drug, and it's already taking its toll on him.

It hurts Paul to even look at him like this, even more so because there's a controversial mixture of emotions involved on his part. Touring always goes way better than recording, but even here, their innately polar opinions often make their lives way more complicated than Paul would prefer them to be, somewhat tainting the rather amiable relationship they have been able to maintain most of the time after the Mutter catastrophe. He wishes he could help now, but he's simultaneously tired of the past several years of working and living side by side so much he also wishes he could just go and stop being concerned with Richard's problems. That said, seeing him like this and knowing how Richard craves the touring routine and the glory he basks in at every concert, it also scares him to think of what length he's ready to go to to quench that constant, almost pathological, yearning in his heart.

As if in confirmation of Paul’s troubled thoughts, Richard finally speaks, his voice dull and listless:

"I can't do this."

There's so much raw despair in it, a forlorn plea to get another shot, a shot of _anything_ which could alleviate that chronic pain, that Paul simply can’t stay away any longer. He moves closer purely by instinct, wrapping his arms around his miserable bandmate.

"Yes, you can," he whispers right into Richard's ear, secretly surprised and relieved by how firm his own voice sounds. By God, he desperately _needs_ it to be firm just now.

Visibly, Richard doesn't react to what Paul has just said in any way. He remains silent, face hidden from view, and just continues to sit motionlessly, curled into a tight ball of raw nerve, the very air about him almost literally crackling with tension and suppressed agony, muscles tight as strings underneath the clammy skin, fists clutching at his hair as he breathes heavily and fights for control over his own body. Still, he doesn't protest when Paul's lips lightly brush against his shoulder – he never protests, though, not in a state like this. It’s always made Paul happy and sad at the same time. Happy, because you've got to build up enough trust before Richard Kruspe himself lets you pull him into your lap like some stray pitiful cat that got caught in the midst of a thunderstorm. Sad, because even after all these years Paul still doesn't have a clue as to how to make it better at times like this. Not that there have been many times like this, thank God – Richard would rather break a wall with his own stubborn head than let anyone pity him too often – but every time Paul was around, it always left a bitter taste of helplessness at the back of his throat, which was further exacerbated his inability to understand why on earth it can never be enough for Richard and he has to subject himself to all this suffering. After the Mutter meltdown, though, and their subsequent fragile reconciliation, he has been trying the best he can not to be too quick to judge. Everyone has their own quirks; surely, Richard is allowed to have a few, too.

"Come," Paul finally whispers, almost physically unable to take his lips off Richard's shoulder. What he doesn’t dare say is that if he stays here a little longer, he will probably get his fair share of the post-tour depression, and he could certainly do bloody well without it. "Let's go."

As he finally pulls back, Richard leans against the back of the seat, his eyes still closed.

"Do me," he mutters, his chest rising and falling erratically from his shaky breaths.

Stifling a sigh, Paul lets his eyes slip shut for a fraction of a second. He knows what it implies and he doesn't like it a single bit, he _can't help_ not liking it on some very deep level, but is there anything he could actually do about it? No, Paul doesn't think so, unless he wants to make what is already pretty bad even worse.

"Let's get to the hotel first, okay?" he asks, knowing resistance is futile. "I'll do whatever you want me to, I promise."

"I'm gonna go out of my mind before we get there," Richard murmurs, and even though his voice is very quiet, the edge in it is perceptible enough to make Paul wince. He does sound like he's in physical pain, and who knows, maybe in such situations it really is hard for Richard to draw the line between physical and emotional. "Paul, please. The tour's most probably doomed, we're going our separate ways for who knows how long tomorrow, do me one last favour?"

This time Richard gives him a sidelong glance, and despite him actually asking for sex – _pleading_ , even – there is absolutely nothing in his eyes which could be possibly mistaken for arousal. All Paul sees is dismay and agony, and he hates both. He doesn't say no, however – has never said it, in fact – because as much as he doesn't like such way of doing things, he still wants Richard out of this gloomy trap, preferably sooner rather than later, and what he's asking for usually works well enough.

Paul doesn’t even make an attempt to conceal a sigh of displeasure – Richard knows perfectly well about his aversion to what he's asking him to do – and gets off the seat, lending his bandmate a helping hand. Richard doesn’t hesitate to accept it, almost gratefully, and they hastily follow the spider web of corridors towards the band dressing rooms.

Once the door lock clicks shut behind them, Paul fetches his bag from the nearby chair and proceeds to the dressing table in the corner, half-perching himself on its paper- and makeup-littered top. Wordlessly, Richard sinks down to the floor in between Paul's spread legs, undoing the sophisticated mechanism of his lederhosen’s fly. If you don’t look too hard, his fingers seem deft and sure, working with the precision of a person who is in desperate need of something but still quite able to stay composed enough not to hit the panic mode. If the tricky buttons don’t get undone in the next few seconds, though, then he probably will, because if you _do_ look hard enough, Richard’s hands are shaking quite noticeably. His whole body is, Paul notes, secretly wishing he could just somehow teleport to the hotel room and just make love to him, make love _for real_ and not engage in this perverse substitute for it.

However, he's familiar with what's going on well enough to know that Richard doesn't need making _love_. What he does need is something rough and violent to take his mind of the emotional pain he for some reason persists to wallow in.

So Paul doesn’t say a word and stays where he is, leaning his butt against the dresser instead of making it more or less comfortably to the sofa. Sofas don't really incite violence, do they? 

Clutching at the edge of the dressing table, Paul sighs again, and as if that isn’t enough to make it clear that he is not particularly anticipating what is coming, the state of affairs below his waist certainly is. That's not a big deal, however – there's no anticipation as long as his brain still has some control over his dick, but he knows Richard's mouth is quite skilled in effectively killing his thinking ability in no time flat. It doesn't disappoint him this time around, either – all wet and hot and soft around him, his tongue teasing his foreskin, his lips drawing it back, his hand cupping his balls, massaging them, rolling them until Paul's eyes roll back in his head in response. With a quivering exhale, he lets his fingers entangle themselves into the stiff spikes of Richard's hair – gently for the time being since he'd prefer to postpone the inevitable for as long as he can manage, hoping against hope that, by some miracle, Richard will reconsider what he demands from Paul and consent to doing something a bit more conventional and less psychologically trying for Paul. 

It's not that he doesn't like sex with Richard anymore – oh yes, he does like it very well, it's one thing that has never changed since the first time they found themselves in the same bed, young and a little drunk and delirious with desire. He doesn't mind being given head by his wayward fellow guitarist either, especially considering how bloody well he can do it and how bloody good he looks in the process and with his mouth – _finally_ – effectively shut. He has nothing against some rough or kinky play between the sheets – he, in fact, rather enjoys practising it, but there's one crucial condition to it – he loves doing it _for pleasure._

Right now, though, it's not about pleasure at all. Right now it's all about dulling emotional pain with physical discomfort bordering on pain, and even though it does seem to work for Richard; even though Paul knows bloody well that if _he_ doesn't provide him with the so needed distraction, Richard will find some other ways to do it, most certainly much more physically destructive ways; even though he is adamant on not allowing Richard to come to any kind of harm while they are doing this and even though he appreciates the trust, Paul still – even despite the sexual satisfaction in the end – can’t help but despise these encounters. There seems to be little care in what he does, and little desire in Richard while he's doing it to him, at least the kind of desire that has been burning for years on end now, which brought them together and kept them together even when the fire was barely kindling. What it seems to be is him simply using Paul to fight whatever inner demons haunt him, and for some reason, it hurts Paul, too, as if he's taking Richard's pain away and injecting it into himself instead.

These kinds of thoughts keep getting to him every time it happens – he mulls them over again and again, as if they were stuck on rewind in his head. Likewise, they tend to fade away in a matter of minutes it takes Richard to work him up to his full, stiff length. And then, finally, Paul's liberated enough to do just what is required of him, and by this moment he _almost_ wants it himself. 

Knowingly, his fingers take a proper hold of Richard's gelled spikes and pull him deeper into his groin without any unnecessary prelude. Richard doesn't resist, although he lets out a few chocked noises and the grip of his hands on Paul's thighs tightens considerably. Paul keeps him where he is, allowing him a while to adjust to having a cock that deep in his mouth as Richard screws his eyes up tightly. Then he pulls out slowly, watching, mesmerised, how Richard's spit glistens on his shaft in the dim light of the dressing room. Strange how he has seen it so many times before and he still can't really get enough of watching his partner’s lips tightening into a perfect O around his cock and his cheeks hollowing as he sucks it back inside. Paul would gladly drag it as slowly as he physically could, to enjoy the moment properly, but after the first few 'taster' sucks his lover's eyes flicker open, his gaze meeting Paul's, and that hateful pain is still there, lurking in the liquid darkness of his dilated pupils persistently, for the time being dulled only by the anticipation of the possible deliverance that is to come.

Paul bites his bottom lip as he lets his dick slip out of the wet warmth of Richard's mouth into the considerably cooler air of the dressing room, a thin trail of saliva stretching from his wetly glistening lips to the wetly glistening tip of his cock, and the combination of the changed temperature and the sight in front of him makes his body shudder.

"Paul, _please_ ," Richard whispers, just a tiny bit out of breath, either from the lack of oxygen or because of his wound-up emotional state, or maybe both.

Along with the pain, there is such an earnest plea in his eyes that Paul has an unexpected insight into why he has never been able to resist him – you just can’t say no to the eyes so full of despair, unless you have no soul at all.

Richard’s voice is deep and husky, and there is something about that trail of saliva dragging down to his full bottom lip, something wonderfully obscene and still beautiful, something sincere in his request – Paul has a momentary struggle trying to hold back an impulsive laugh because looking sincere with a cock in one's mouth is a challenge, to begin with – that something finally snaps inside of him, and his thoughts and doubts are no more. Instead, there is an overwhelming, all-absorbing, powerful desire, irresistible in its urgency, because, holy fuck, why would he even contemplate something when there is this sexy, handsome man kneeling right in front of him, lips parted and ready, asking him, pleading him to just take him.

So Paul does just that, for now without any second thoughts. He grips Richard's hair properly, hard enough to make it less than pleasant, and thrusts his cock back into his mouth so abruptly Richard actually gags. His fingers curl into the leather of Paul's shorts, but he doesn't make an attempt to pull back despite the obvious discomfort; oh no, that's not how they play this game. Richard's body tenses considerably and he violently gulps for air every single time Paul takes himself out of his mouth, but all he can do is barely inhale once before Paul rams it back inside, and so it goes on and on – in and out, in and out, spit oozing out of Richard's mouth in slow, viscous treacle, tears running down his cheeks and leaving pale, narrow paths on his skin, sweat and snot glistening under his nose.

Far at the back of his mind, dazed by sexual arousal, Paul wonders whether _this_ is why Richard needs this physical discomfort bordering on humiliation – just due to the fact that he simply can't fucking take normal human forms of consolation. He wonders whether this is the only way to make him cry it all out, because with a cock stuck down one's throat past one's tonsils it simply gets quite difficult to hold back one's tears. Is it a form of punishment, he asks himself following a steady rhythm which effectively keeps Richard choking and crying, or is it the physical and emotional exhaustion which comes after that Richard pursues, allowing Paul to do these things to him? Not just allowing, actually _begging_ him to do them.

Considering that he rather hates these things, the very concept of them, it does take Paul longer than it could be in the normal circumstances to fuck Richard's mouth to wind himself up enough to proceed to the second part of the show. Not that Richard would object, of course – after all, this is exactly what he has asked for, and damn, isn't he trying hard, apparently doing his best to coax Paul into consenting to this? There isn't a hint of teeth scraping over Paul's sensitive skin, and he doesn't make a single attempt to pull back when the tip of his nose buries into the fluffy patch of hair in Paul's groin and his throat constricts. The sensation is splendid, and following his inner urge for release, Paul fucks this pliant, obliging mouth harder, feeling the moisture from Richard's cheeks against his own skin, gripping his hair and jerking his head more and more roughly until it starts to seem way too much and he has to push Richard away at last.

Richard, who doubles in half immediately, is sniffing and gasping for breath, his vocalised pants sounding awfully close to actual sobs.

Before he is overcome by the urge to kneel beside his partner and actually _comfort_ him for real, something his very essence desperately wants to do, Paul squeezes Richard’s wet cheeks between his thumb and his fingers, squeezes them hard and painfully, making Richard’s lips form an obliging ‘O’ yet again as his eyes slip shut and a wince distorts his features. It obviously hurts but he welcomes this pain, and another wave of disgust rolls over Paul in spite of himself. Ignoring it the best he can, he pulls Richard back to his feet and, before he has time to change his mind, swaps their places so that now it is Richard who is bent over the dresser. He actually arches his spine a little, sticking his butt out, still panting, while he waits for Paul to negotiate the condom packaging and his pants and the lube. When it is done, there's no preparation or a gentle teasing foreplay; Paul just pushes in hard enough to make Richard's arms give way. He lands onto his forearms, barely escaping banging his forehead against dresser's mirror. A soft, hushed groan escapes his mouth and gets muffled when he presses his face against his forearms.

What Paul still dearly wishes to do is ask if Richard is okay, to make sure he's not in pain, he wants to slow down and make his thrusts more flowing, easy, he wants to lean down and kiss him and whisper something obscene or sweet or obscenely sweet into his ear; but he doesn't. That will defy the purpose of it all, most probably spoiling it for Richard, so Paul just tries to be as rough as physically possible without inflicting any real damage. The only thing which reassures him a little is that it is not the first time he has had his cock in Richards's ass over the past year or so, thanks to the long tour they have been on, so as far as adjusting to it is concerned, Richard shouldn't have much trouble. Meanwhile, Paul grips his long-time partner’s shoulders, digging his short nails into them so that his hands wouldn’t slip off the skin that's slick with sweat and a good layer of stage make-up, and, using Richard's own body as leverage, he starts fucking him as hard as he can, pushing him into the dressing table so hard it clatters against the wall. That must be producing quite a lot more unpleasantness as Richard’s groin hits the edge of the dresser every time Paul shoves his cock inside, and to make it even less pleasant, instead of a kiss, he leaves a not at all playful bite on his trapezius, causing Richard to jerk and groan again. 

Strangely, despite all his aversion to what he's doing, Richard's muffled, hurt, moans somehow resonate in Paul’s nether regions, driving him wild, making him want to pull out and then thrust back, with twice as much force. Which he does, since Richard still keeps the safeword they have for such occasions to himself. And some part of Paul is deliriously glad because of that. Right now, he wouldn't want it to end, not really anymore. Right now, he's almost grown accustomed to the role of the tyrant he has to play, and all he wants is to play it well, so he pushes the thoughts that have been bothering him to the back of his mind. Later, when this is finally over, when they finally crash on one bed, those thoughts will inevitably be back, making him wonder where this monster in him comes from, but that will only be later, not now.

Now pounding into Richard for all he is worth is Paul’s main priority, and the more desperate his lover’s muffled moaning becomes, the more desperate his need for release is. When he is close enough, he grabs hold of Richard's until now neglected cock, the too tight grip making the latter let out yet another pained groan, but Paul doesn't let himself care anymore. Slowly but steadily, he tightens his hold on the base of Richard’s shaft, never interrupting the steady rhythm of his hips and hissing a curse when Richard's butt tightens around him in response. 

It's hard to tell how long they've been closeted in this crammed, stuffy dressing room, the air now heavy with the scents of sweat, sex and pyro, but when Paul's on the very verge of coming, his hips jerking erratically, his hand so tight around Richard's cock his balls must have acquired a pretty shade of robin blue, there is a knock on the door. Before Paul manages to suck in a shuddering inhale to say something, Flake's nonchalant voice comes from behind it.

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes, make it quick," he says, almost casually, and Paul genuinely hopes the keyboardist has enough time to get the fuck out of there before Richard's body stiffens in his arms and he lets out a choked cry, shooting his load into Paul's hand.

"Taking his words literally, huh?" he croaks into Richard's ear, renewing his temporarily interrupted thrusts, his hand spreading the sticky, warm semen all over Richard's cock.

It makes the latter whine and shudder and buck his behind back, his dick apparently way too sensitive just now for such kind of treatment, but Paul doesn't stop – that is what Richard wanted, after all, just the right amount of physical agony to take his thoughts off the painful heaviness in his chest.

It doesn't take Paul long to get off now, considering how tight the grip of Richard's ass is, and when he's done, he doesn't pull out. He pulls Richard up instead, gasping at the increase of the pressure around his dick, and hugs him tight around the waist, suddenly overwhelmed by that old familiar feeling – not exactly remorse, but something quite close to it. Drawing in a shaky breath, Paul can't help placing quick, fluttering kisses all over Richard’s shoulder and up along his neck, kissing his ear and the sharp angle of his jaw bone.

He lets his palms stroke Richard's damp, heaving stomach, down to the base of his cock, this time inflicting no pain but running his fingers through the patch of carefully trimmed hair down there. He remains silent, even though he desperately wants to know if his lover is okay, for the time being resorting only to the body language, almost apologising for what he has just done. To hell with it, _really_ apologising even though none of this was in his plans for tonight, and he knows that Richard understands. When he finally lets his cock slip out, Richard lets his head lean back to rest against his temple with a quiet, exhausted sigh. Paul gives him a concerned, sideway glance, inwardly urging him to say something – _anything_ – but he remains silent, the only thing breaking the stillness being their not quite calmed down breathing. The quietness is so eerily perceptible that it makes Paul want to scream. 

It is not that he really thinks that he could have hurt Richard way too much – they have been through this plenty of times for Paul to know the limits of what is too much. It is not that he really believes Richard might hold a grudge for this – there have been no grudges before. Still, once the excitement is gone, the nasty thoughts are back to seize Paul, because, by God, he doesn't like this, he doesn't like inflicting this discomfort which is rather mild on the physical level but apparently strong enough to actually take the edge of the emotional turmoil in Richard's chest, he doesn't like being the instrument of deliverance because that black void Richard's emotions are swarming in is too complicated for him to understand, even all these years later, and no, he doesn't like it a single bit—

"Thank you," Richard's voice – _oh thank God, at last_ – pulls Paul out of his growing paranoia, and his embrace tightens around Richard's torso instinctively.

Paul swallows, takes a breath he wasn't even aware he's been holding and plants a firm kiss onto the side of Richard's neck, suddenly – and with relief – realising the nasty tremor in his lover's body has gone and that now it feels heavy and relaxed in his arms, so he kisses him again. Richard turns his head just a bit to let their lips join in another chaste, close-mouthed kiss.

"Let's get going, yeah?" Paul whispers, somewhat appeased, and, not without certain difficulty, pulls up Richard's pants, awkwardly zipping up the fly and doing his very best not to pinch anything too sensitive – for some reason he is sure this isn't the kind of pain Richard would thank him for later.

On their way back to the hotel, Richard actually falls asleep in the back seat next to Paul, his head not quite leaning on Paul's shoulder. The latter closes his eyes with a sigh and edges just a bit closer to his friend, which effectively leaves Richard's head resting on his shoulder for real. 

When they finally reach their hotel room – Richard’s hotel room, to be precise – all they have strength for is pulling off their clothes and scrambling straight in bed. No shower, no midnight snacks, no home calls – all of those can be done tomorrow. For now, they are more than content to snuggle close under the blankets and finally be able to say goodbye to the long day behind. They hardly ever sleep holding each other – Paul does love to cuddle and he knows Richard indeed became very fond of it long ago, too – but that usually lasts precisely until the moment they doze off and unconsciously crawl to the opposite sides of the bed. But tonight, Paul suspects he will probably have to sacrifice his own night’s rest in favour of keeping Richard comfortable. That is another reason why he’d have preferred to fuck him senseless here in the safe comfort of the hotel instead of the dressing room – he'd have been out like a light straight afterwards, and now that the post-coital exhaustion has somewhat subdued, he will probably spend half of the night brooding instead of sleeping.

And yeah, here it comes, of course.

"I'm sorry," Richard whispers, his voice muffled against Paul’s chest.

"Don't give me your _sorrys_ , Richard," Paul sighs into the unpleasantly stiff spikes on the top of his head.

"I know how you feel about doing this."

"It works at least, doesn’t it?"

Paul doesn't like it, all right. Not at all. But he also suspects he will do it over and over again as long as it’s capable of taking Richard’s pain away. He doesn’t say so out loud, though, but it’s probably all the same because Richard knows it just as well as he knows how much Paul doesn't approve of such encounters.

"You do at least know that there’s no one else, don't you?" he asks instead, turning his head to look Paul in the eye. "That you're the only one who will ever be allowed to do this to me?"

The hold of his hand on Paul’s hip is so hard it almost hurts and his voice sounds oh so tired, but that’s alright as long as there are none of those awful, erratic, jerky breaths as if he was having an asthma fit.

"I do," Paul says softly, trying to sound convinced.

Yet, he wonders, even now, even lying here with Richard, wonders what would happen if, for once, he said no to him on occasions like this. He wonders if Richard would probably give up on the entire idea and switch to something else instead, either more or less destructive than this. He can't quite explain why this thing Richard needs him to do seems to be destructive, perhaps simply because one of them doesn't enjoy it all that much, or maybe there's a more fundamental implication behind it. He also wonders if Richard would seek someone else elsewhere, and the thought still twists a cold dagger of jealousy in his gut. It's absurd because it's not as if there's something even remotely resembling commitment between them anymore, they have never since the meltdown of the Mutter times really voiced any sort of objections concerning the other's sexual life, apparently coming to the conclusion that it would perhaps spare them yet another reason to have a confrontation. Paul's personal life is his to mind, and so is Richard's his own, yet here he still is, loathing the thought of anyone else's hands on Richard, some _stranger's_ hands _._ So he _does_ want to sound convinced and he _does_ want to believe Richard he is the only one, even now, so many years later.

"Why are you so against it?" Richard asks quietly. "It's not like you're doing any real damage or even hurt me for that matter."

Paul huffs softly, almost annoyed with him but trying to curb the emotion all the same. It's their last night together for who knows how long – it would be plain ridiculous to turn it into an argument. They have been doing their damnedest best to try to avoid arguments over the past several years, and Paul isn't going to spoil the statistics.

"Because it evokes memories I'm not that fond of remembering," he says at last, not looking at Richard anymore. "There's no grace about it and no lo--"

He trails off in the midst of what he was about to say.

_There's no love in it_ , was on the tip of his tongue, but Paul managed to smother it at the last possible moment because why the fuck was he even going to say that? He swore to himself he wouldn't drag love into this again, it's more than enough that they manage to maintain the cordial relationship, not to kill each other, still be able to laugh in each other's company and fuck whenever they feel the need to. They are here for each other, and, for all he knows, those worthless words and promises may only play a dirty trick on them again.

"I’m just scared that one day it simply won’t be enough for you anymore," Paul sighs instead, which is true, of course, but not the only reason there is. "And I can’t give you more than this, Richard. I can’t hurt you more, I just… I can’t."

Moving a tiny bit closer, Richard presses his mouth to Paul’s, and the grip of his hand on Paul's hip finally relaxes into a gentler hold.

"I love you," he murmurs not taking his lips off, and this long-banished phrase nudges something painfully in Paul’s chest.

"Richard…" he half-whispers, half-hisses, screwing up his eyes. He doesn't quite know if he's pleading Richard not to say it or if he's warning him to stop before it riles him. "You do know I care?" he forces out of his mouth instead, but it sounds so wretchedly trite that Paul hates himself for such a monstrosity right on the spot.

He feels Richard’s sigh on his face and curses himself some more, but he holds him closer and kisses him for all he’s worth, this time the way he wants to kiss him, slowly and properly, hoping his lover will understand. They’ve been around each other for quite a while to learn how to, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> *'Sister of Night' by Depeche Mode because it's both so unbearably harrowing and soothing.
> 
> The reference to Till's knee injury is about that incident when Flake supposedly collided with him on a Segway on stage. No idea how long it took them to reach the decision to cancel the rest of the shows, but I shamelessly used to to add even more gloom to Richard's mood.


End file.
